You Got A Problem With That?
I don't know the man's name, like I don't know the name of so many other people at the El Segundo dog park. My icebreaker question a month ago was what was the name and breed of his dogs; I didn't get around to asking his (name, not breed). That isn't considered rude in the tiny social bubble of the dog park, where canines are the real news and objects of interest and humans aren't that important. Still, this man stood out for me. I'd know his mussed white hair, ruddy face and hearty, gravelly voice anywhere. I figure he's Irish; he lit up when I told him my first name, calling it a fit one for an Irish girl., Yes, I told him. My mother had a thing for Irish names. Lucky me.
He laughed at that. I did, too. I'm not sure we were laughing for the same reason, but I didn't give it much thought. The more good cheer in the park, the better for the dogs' state of play. Dog owners take cheer with no questions asked. Peace at the park is imperative, for obvious reasons.
I'll just call him George. Last Sunday I saw him, per usual. After an upbeat chat about college football and the progress of my rescue pup, Honey, he paused, like he wasn't quite sure how to say what he was going to say next. "I'm trying to figure out your shirt," he said.
My shirt? I glanced down. I was wearing a t-shirt with a logo that read, "Black Girl, 'Nuf Said." One of a hundred t-shirts I wear to the dog park on Sundays. It's self-explanatory to me, if maybe a little cheeky, like most logos and bumper stickers. What was he asking? I felt an instant tension, a familiar racial wariness and human distance that I did not want to feel. Not at the dog park. Although now that I thought about it--now that I had to think about it--this was El Segundo, famously white and cloistered, population sixteen thousand, nice little burg by the ocean that people like me couldn't venture into after dark for decades, let alone live in, or even walk a dog through..... "Figure out what?" I said, cheerfully.
George kept smiling and went on to say that perhaps my shirt was saying that being black was all there was, and I was excluding other things about me that were also important? I fought more tightening and wariness. No, I said evenly, not at all. But being black was certainly as important as anything else. He nodded, satisfied, or done with his questions for now. We drifted apart to search for our animals, came back together, talked a bit more about Honey and her terrible allergies and what to do about them.
I warned him about a volatile dog owner who had lost his temper a few days before and roughed up my golden/shepard mix, Toby. Picked him up by the collar and threw him in the dirt.
George looked shocked. "That's terrible!" he said. "Who was this guy? What'd he look like?"
I almost said, he was white. I wound up saying, young and blondish. Seemed okay on the surface, smart and all, but he wasn't. Dangerous. You know the type.
George nodded. More than 'nuf said.
This image was taken by Flickr user swirlspice. It was used under Creative Commons license.
